


The Heart of the Forge

by CavannaRose, MelyssaShadows



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bards, Dwarves, Found Family, Gen, Magic, Original Character(s), Overprotective Dwarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-10-11 13:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelyssaShadows/pseuds/MelyssaShadows
Summary: Those that wish to become Leaders must first prove they are worthy of being a follower.





	1. Chapter 1

The dwarves had been forced from Erebor, driven away by Smaug, and then hounded by the hordes of Azog the Defiler. He watched them, fighting, dying, and failing to reclaim what they had lost. What more could he do? They spread out, taking jobs in the lands of Men, peddling their traditions in return for meagre scraps from the tall folk. His father had left, and he was left King in Exile. What could a King do, but serve his people? If they were forced to work and scrape, then he too would work and scrape. He would lead from the front, as the King of Dwarves was meant to. He was no mighty Elven lord, to hide in the forests when there was much to be done.

Still, he did not go out as Thorin, son of Thráin, King under the Mountain. He was Thorin Oakenshield, a warrior-smith, in the tradition of the Lonely Mountain. He worked forges in the halls of Men, he listened to their quibbling and pretension as they flourished their dwarven-forged blades and armor. He listened to their jests about his size, about his name, about his roving state, but he kept his head high. He was not in their halls to make friends, but to support his people, living as poor relations in the halls of the Blue Mountains. Everything he earned went back to them, and eventually, he found solace in his simple life.

Though raised from birth to one day be king, it was always a distant thing. Dwarves were longer lived than the common Man, and though prepared to shoulder the mantle when Thráin left, he had become comfortable in his new existence. He was currently working the forge in the Keep of a lesser human lord, quiet in his obscurity. Though he ate in the hall, working the forge in the inner bailey, passed by Men throughout the day, he rarely spoke to any but the young crippled lad who sometimes lingered by the forge, eyes wide as he watched the dwarf work.

Though generally gruff, he spared a smile for the young lad, watching him race across the pounded dirt of the bailey, a bundle of kindling in his arms, his clubbed foot dragging slightly behind, giving him a stumbling gait. Breathless the dark-haired child tumbled his burden into the fire Thorin was building under the forge, and Thorin's calloused hand reached out, ruffling the unruly curls briefly. Over the past score of days, the lad had brightened, and the beginnings of muscular tone could be seen to develop in the lad's arms. A blacksmith did not need to be a warrior, though they often were amidst his people. A man who tended the forge did not need to be able to run or march for miles. All he needed was a strong back and arms, and the lad had potential.

He crouched beside the boy, showing him how to arrange the small and large pieces of wood to sustain the fire. He was reminded of his young cousins, Kili and Fili, and their constant curiosity, though the human child was much quieter. He murmured the forge stories of his people, to this foreign child, and his homesickness was slightly less. Big brown eyes followed him everywhere, and the fact that the Men of the Keep had ignored the boy, treated him as something to be tossed away, only fueled his disdain for the Tall Folk.

A swordsman entered the forge area, his weapon a sad, battered thing. He dropped it onto the anvil, his face haughty. "I need the handle repaired, dwarf." His eyes scanned the forge, disdain in his demeanor, and then his gaze settled on the child. "Brand, what are you doing here? Does your mother know you are skulking about?" The bright-eyed child wilted, back hunching as he stumbled towards the exit. Thorin stood straight, his hand settling on the lad's narrow shoulder. Hesitating, young Brand looked up at him, and the tears in the child's eyes touched the dwarf.

"You address the smith, not the apprentice, or do they teach you no manners in the Halls of Men?" Thorin's voice was low, threatening as he tucked the lad behind him, lowering his gaze to the child. "Brand, go fetch another faggot of kindling for the forge, we need the iron hot today." With a nervous glance to the soldier, the boy nodded and hobbled off. Once more the displaced king's eyes went to the Man before him. He wanted to put the swordsman in his place, to grind him beneath the weight of what he was, but his focus was on his people, not on touting his title. His lip curled. "Find a cooper if you want your knife fixed, it is not worthy of a smith."

That night in the Great Hall, he could feel the weight of at least a dozen angry eyes from the table of guardsmen. From the end table, where those of lowest ranks ate, he simply sat, consuming his meal in silence as the murmurs of the Men around him echoed in the hall. Silence gradually fell across the room, and a young man stood, an instrument unfamiliar to Thorin cradled in his arms. The dwarf studied the slender male, head tilted to one side. He cast his gaze to the assemblage of Men, curiously noting that some appeared eager and interested, while others mocking. Brand appeared at his shoulder, a half-full ewer of wine in his hands. As the boy poured for him, Thorin gestured to the man with his chin. "What happens here, lad. Who is that?"

Voice quiet, a small tremble of excitement in his body, the boy replied. "A bard has come, though I'm not certain from where. Perhaps far, for he has never been seen here before. I hope he has new stories to tell, the last bard only played and sang familiar songs. 'Tis been longer than I remember since we had new tales, until you came of course." Thorin nodded in acknowledgement as the boy blushed. "We shall see then, shall we not? When you are done serving, come and sit by me and we shall hear this bard."


	2. Chapter 2

"Gather round, gather round! Listen to stories, unlike anything you've ever heard before!" The bard called out, stepping towards the front of the room, near a roaring fireplace. Despite the eagerness of the young lad at Thorin's shoulder, the older men and guards seem unimpressed. Few of them even bothering to raise their heads in acknowledgement.

"Git outta 'ere!" A large man with no teeth yelled, and his companion, a shorter man with long greasy hair shrugged.

"Might as well lettim sing. We can rob 'is earnin's later!"

They laughed, and Thorin sent them a long, hard look. He would remember their faces, and if anything happened to the bard, they would get a visit from him and his ax. He had no patience for thieves or fools, and so many amidst this petty human court appeared to be both. The bard offered a charming smile as he pulled a stool over to sit down. Carefully setting his cittern on his knee, he strummed the first few keys. Thorin felt a familiar shiver run through his body, goosebumps rolling over his skin, as the scent of magic awakened around him. This was no ordinary singer.

"I can promise you songs that you've never heard before. Some will make you laugh. Some will make you cry. Some will make you go home to the ones you love and want to show them how your heart sings for them!" The performer did not raise his voice, yet it seemed to carry across the room and then, he closed his eyes and began. His finger strummed the strings, and with each stroke, golden glitter seemed to wisp around his fingers before dissipating in the air around his hand.

The music carried much like his voice, and his first song told the tale of a brave Prince, taking on an ancient dragon with only his father's sword, mother's shield, and his wit. It was a whimsical song, but listening closely, Thorin heard a mournful tone behind it all, and a few hidden lyrics that suggested that the brave Prince did not live through the encounter, even if the bard did not make the song about death. Next was a purely comical song, about a large man who ran a forge but was clumsier than a deer learning to walk. It was a charming tune, and the bard's voice was full of love as he sang, his face smiling. Thorin smiled in response, thinking of his fool nephews back home.

The next song was a heartbreaking love song for a woman named Rose Red. Somehow the usual stink of the great hall faded, replaced by a light breeze carrying a scent like rose petals as the song carried on. Even the fire seemed to take on a rose-colored hue. The song was sweet but full of pain, as the last verse speaks of her dying breath and the vow her lover still swears to keep. Thorin would have ended it there, if he were the bard. The song was clearly a masterpiece, but instead the musician went on to sing another song about the life of adventure and leaving loved ones behind, about the heartbreak of saying goodbye but the overwhelming ecstasy of seeing your loved ones again at the end.

At the end of the performance Thorin reached down and ruffled Brand's hair, the boy looked moonstruck. Big brown eyes wide and shining, he turned his face up to Thorin's, his smile broad and filled with wonder. "Did you see? There was magic in his voice. The fire danced and the whole world fell away. Is he a wizard? Do you think he could teach me his magic... Not that the forge isn't fun, but that was /magic/ Master Blacksmith."

The dwarf shook his head, ruffling the youth's hair once more. "Magic is an uncanny thing, Brand. It chooses it's host, and then it changes their lives in ways they might never have guessed. It reaches out, touching the lives of others to, shaping the weft of the world. Dwarves don't mess with magic, they're far too sensible. Leave that kind of meddling to the elves and fools." He shook his head, rising to his feet. "The bard has a talent, I will certainly give him that, and it was a fine thing to hear new songs, but I shall return to my forge, and you should return to your pallet. The hour grows late, and we have work to do in the morning."

The boy scampered off as fast as his poor foot would carry him, and the displaced king of Erebor watched him go, missing home with a fierceness that surprised him. It was the song the bard sang, the one of the clumsy blacksmith. It had awoken feeling in him that he thought he had buried deep. His people needed him to be strong, to earn money out among the humans and to find them a way home. He couldn't let himself get distracted by musicians, or little orphaned boys. What matter was it of his if the boy was tossed about and discarded?

Except, is that not what had happened to his people? Betrayed by the elves, tossed out into a world they had not trod in hundreds of years. Forced to live like poor relations in the halls of others. He wanted more for his people, and somewhere along the way, young Brand had become one of his. He was a fool. There was no way he could take the boy with him when he left. He was not a dwarf, and when Thorin left he would be returning to his people. He had to bring them gold and hope, not half-grown boys that no one else wanted.

The musician was standing at the side of the room, a mug of ale in his hand, but all alone. That was strange. In the halls of Erebor, a travelling bard would be the centre of attention, particularly following a performance like that one. Still, the Men in the Great Hall seemed unimpressed. Unaffected by the wonders they had just witnessed, or the sweetness of the man's music. Even the Lord of the Hall was distracted, head bent in conference with his head steward. The aging Lady of the Hall, however, seemed to be assessing the bard with a gaze that Thorin knew well, and knew that it would mean trouble.

Assured that the boy would be fine for the evening, he moved across the hall, passing unnoticed through the filth and the sweat-stink of the assembled men, until he had drawn close enough to get a look at the young man with his strange instrument. "You sing well. I did not expect to hear a voice like yours in the Halls of Men, not in this Age. Where did you study, sir, that you can lace power within your words as if it were no more effort than breath?"

"You hear that, lads? The dwarf thinks that caterwauling like a tavern doxie is somehow akin to magic. No wonder the Halls of the dwarves have fallen, if that's what passed for entertainment for them." The all-too familiar voice of the swordsman he had refused service to echoed around the Hall, and an unnatural quiet followed.

"Just because a donkey brays, does not mean he needs to be heard." Thorin didn't even turn his head, not deigning to look at the man. Behind him, the swordsman struggled to his feet, a long night of drinking making him stumble more than once.

"I'll teach you a lesson, dwarf. No half-sized excuse for a man insults me."

With a sigh, Thorin gave the bard a quick bow, and turned. He first cast his gaze to the lord of the keep, a disgusted expression crossing his face when he noticed the man was eagerly watching the exchange. Perhaps it was time to return to his people. He missed a people that believed in honour and respect. Focus falling back on the swordsman, he raised his voice. "I do not cross blades with drunken children, particularly not ones who were driven from the ranks of Rohan." A gasp echoed through the room, and the King under the Mountain squared his shoulders. "I too hear stories, Ceorldred, but I shall not spread them here and now. Nor will I raise my ax against that dull stick you pretend is a sword. Tonight is my last night as the blacksmith in residence. Perhaps you can sharpen your blades on the rocks in your guardsmen's heads from now on."

Murmurs echoed around the chamber, but Thorin was done with the scene, and did not wish to continue listening to the prattle of fools. "I apologize, Sir Bard, for the lack of manners in this Keep. I urge you to move on soon, for you will find the pockets of this Lord are shallow and his esteem prone to lay on the shoulders of those unworthy. If you choose to leave this night, I shall be ready by the ninth bell and would not refuse a companion on the road to what can only be greener pastures."


	3. Chapter 3

To be out on the road again, now, when he had come so close to earning the coin he needed to feed his people through the stark winter months, was going to be a nightmare. Worse, he was going to have to leave the boy on his own. Hopefully what he had learned from shadowing Thorin these past days would give him something to build on, but the dwarf doubted it. This was not a keep where the skills of anyone even mildly different would be nourished. This was a place where dreams went to die. Between the skinflint who called himself Lord, and the sharp-tempered soldiers who were hardly worth the metal in their swords, it was a disaster waiting to happen. He shouldn't have stopped here at all. 

He started packing in the forge, carefully taking only his own tools, fine, dwarven made pieces that had come to him from his mother's father. They fit his hands far better than any of the human-made objects. Anything he had made while here that had not gone to one or another of the men so far, he left behind. No one would accuse Thorin Oakenshield of theft, even though it meant sacrificing whatever profit that might be made by selling the items. He wasn't counting on seeing the last of his pay from the Lord either. The swaggering goat was hardly a man of honour.

It would mean hardship for his people, unless he could find another Keep to take him in within a few weeks. The snows came early on the plains, and once they came it would be near impossible to get the coins back to his folk where they stayed amidst their cousins. Frowning, he cleaned the last of his awls and wrapped everything in heavy boarhide so that they would not dull by knocking and rattling together as he traveled. The tools of his trade tidily tucked away, he moved to the scant quarters he had been provided to fetch his few personal items. He had carried little aside from his tools, but what he had was of value, at least to him.

He gathered up several letters from his nephews, wordy missives full of tales of the scrapes they had gotten themselves into since he left. They were a pair of hellions, and he did not envy his sister the raising of either of them. Still, the letters were refolded carefully and placed in his bag, right next to his tools. Beyond that he had little of value. The bag of coins he had worked so hard to earn this season, his own personal weapons... beyond that he had nothing. He needed nothing, not until his people had regained their home. That had been his oath, and he would serve it faithfully.

Shouldering his bag, he headed for the door, stopped by the appearance of Brand at the door. The lad shifted his weight, twisting his hands together and staring at the ground. Still, the lad didn't speak. Thorin sighed, feeling the guilt settling into his chest in spite of the necessity of what he had done. He placed a heavy hand on the lad's scrawny shoulder. "Look at me, Brand." A sniffle escaped the boy, and he shook his head, refusing to raise his gaze. Thorin placed one hand on either side of the boy's face, resting his forehead on top of the lad's head. In a few years, the boy would be too tall for such a thing, but for now he was still small. 

"Listen, lad. I know how hard things are for you here, but you cannot come with me. It is a dangerous world out there for those that are small and haven't come into their strength yet. You are smart, and have a knack for picking up skills with even the smallest bit of attention. You can thrive, even in a cesspit like this, as long as you don't let it wear you down. You have a gift, Brand. The anvil calls to you, as surely as it has to any dwarf I have ever worked with." The cheeks underneath his hands were damp, and he felt the pain of it right to his core. He didn't want to leave the child behind, but these people would never let him take Brand. 

Releasing the boy, he dug a hand into his bag, unwrapping one of the boar hides to pull out a small hammer, used for detail work when in his own hand, but the size would be just right for a young lad just starting out. He took the boy's hand, folding it around the handle of the tool. "No matter what those fools say, remember that I see greatness in you. Within your hands is the knowledge, your heart will guide you if you close your eyes and listen, the rest will come from time and the forge. Promise me, lad, that when I come back through next spring I will find you in the blacksmith's hutch, teaching yourself as any self-respecting smith does."

With a sob, Brand flung his arms around Thorin's waist, clinging to the dwarf and crying as if his very heart was breaking. Tears dampened his furs, but he cared little for that as he wrapped his own arms around the young man, who was still in a lot of ways just a little boy, trying to find a place for himself. "Shhh, shhh, little one. Harek barak. Tha Nogazen othok." He hadn't realized he'd fallen into his own native tongue until Brand looked up at him, brow furrowed.

"Hah-rick bare-ek? Tha noh-gaz-.... What does all that mean?"

Thorin shook his head, laughing. "It means I am an old dwarf with a soft heart, but I believe in you and what you can do. Stand strong, my apprentice. Though we may be apart for awhile, I feel like our fates are intertwined. We will see one another again, though it may come at a surprising time."


	4. Chapter 4

After making his goodbyes to the young Brand, Thorin gathered the last of his gear and put out the forge fire. In a heavy stone jar he placed the forge coals that he had brought with him. His people had brought them from Erebor when they were driven out by the dragon, and he would carry them to each job that he worked until he was returned to his throne once more. "Yoth Anart Nar alagh." _For honour and valor_. The familiar words whispered from his lips. The dwarves worshiped no gods, unlike the elves and those Men that thought of such things. Their faith was in the Stone, the Forge, their connection to each other. This was the heart of his people, the burning coals that fired the forges and struck their skills to new heights. 

All packed up, he stopped to ruffle Brand's hair once more. The boy was standing tall, though tears ran down his face. He looked like the man that he would one day be, and Thorin felt a twinge of pride, and loss. He would have liked to see the lad grow into himself. He could only hope that this cursed Keep would not drag him back down into despair. Stepping back, he placed a closed fist over his heart, and bowed to the young man. Startled, a damp smile spread across Brand's face and he returned the gesture. Thorin laughed, clapping the boy on the shoulder so hard he stumbled. "You'll do, young Brand. There's strength in you that they'll never stomp out. Don't forget that."

With a rare smile for the boy, he took his leave, heading to the gate to meet with the bard, should the Man actually be there. His opinions on Men were more conflicted than they had been before, largely in part to the young man with his twisted foot. Before the boy, he would have said that the only use that Man served was populating their ridiculous cities and keeps, waging wars and spending gold for fine dwarven metal that they rarely put to good use. Now, now he was starting to think that perhaps the short-lived race might have some merit. At least, he was willing to consider it. He would travel with the bard, and maybe he would find that it was not just the young that held potential. The man certainly had a lovely singing voice.

It had been so long since he had heard good music. Even the rough voices of his family would be a boon on a quiet evening. Perhaps he could coerce the bard to sing a few songs in the evening. Maybe he would want to learn a few of the dwarven tunes that Thorin valued so much... Or perhaps he was standing around woolgathering when he should be making progress towards the next keep before he wasted too much of the season. If he didn't earn the gold, his people would suffer. They could not rely on the generosity of the Blue Mountains forever. It wasn't fair to their cousins.

Squaring his shoulders he crossed the bailey, coming up short when Ceorldred and his men moved out of the shadows. Thorin sighed, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of his axe, though he didn't draw it. He still hoped to diffuse the situation without spilling blood. It would not look well on him if he left a trail of bodies in his wake. The former Rohirrim, however, did not seem to be inclined to do this softly. As his men spread out in a semi-circle, the dwarf stepped back, refusing to let any of them in behind him. "You are making a mistake, Ceorldred. I am leaving, it would be best for both of us if you simply went about your business and let me pass."

"I should have known you would be a coward. How else would you have been able to weasel out where I had come from? Did you know the Lord wasn't aware. Now I'm under suspicion. He's stripped me of rank and sent a messenger to the Riders." A wicked smile twisted the swordsman's handsome face. "So unfortunate. The young fella had promise, and now he's going to rot in the privy pit." Thorin shuttered his face, refusing to show any emotion. He was glad he had just left Brand at the forge, and thus knew it couldn't be the lad he had become so invested in. Still, for any youth to die because a cruel and dark-intentioned man wanted to hold onto power was untenable. 

"You call me a coward, yet you murder children and need four of your dearest friends to take on a dwarf who barely stands half your height. Nay, Ceorldred, I say that you are the coward. Not only that, but you are a middling swordsman at best, a bully with no strength to back your braggery, and a blemish on the race of Men." Perhaps goading the man when he was outnumbered was not Thorin's most clever of moves, but he was angry. Worse, he was worried what the toad might do to young Brand once Thorin left the Keep. This had to be dealt with now. 

"I am ten times the fighter you will ever be, blacksmith. Just because you can swing a hammer doesn't mean you are worthy to cross blades with me." He could see the way Ceorldred's face turned bright red with his anger.

That was the opening Thorin needed. "I challenge you, then, to come prove yourself against me. I won't even draw my axe, all I need is this." He pulled out his forge hammer, not as heavy or as large as a war hammer, but far bigger than the forge tools used by Men. "Of course, if you need your little friends to hold me down in order to have a target you can hit, I can always draw my axe and show all of you what the difference between dwarves and Men truly is."

His opponent raised a hand, gesturing for the nervous looking minions to step back and give them space. That dark smile claimed the arrogant popinjay's face once more as he drew his blade, testing it against his thumb. "I will cut you into tiny pieces, Dwarf, and then I will send those parts to the dragon on the mountain so that he can devour one more of the babbling sheep that keep jabbering about how they will one day take from him what he so easily stole from them."


End file.
